


Reclaiming Humanity

by notmoreflippingelves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, oblique references to torture and sexual abuse, somewhere between theon & jeyne and theon x jeyne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmoreflippingelves/pseuds/notmoreflippingelves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Jeyne helps him take his first bath in several months, Theon reflects on what the two of them have become since Ramsay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reclaiming Humanity

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for this particular pairing and fandom, so while constructive criticism is welcome, please be kind if you offer it. I have also posted this fic elsewhere, so don't panic if you see it there. I only just recently obtained an AO3 account and am still trying to decide which fics to repost here. Also thanks for reading and kudos/comments are lovely.

#### Reclaiming Humanity

The empty shell of a man who had once been Theon Greyjoy was about to have his first bath in several months. The terribly fragile but remarkably resilient shadow of a girl who had once been Jeyne Poole had just enough fighting spirit left within her small, scarred body to insist upon the obliteration of her companion's considerable stench.

Theon watched with mild interest as Jeyne heated another large pot filled with clean snow over the fire. Once the pot began to steam, she emptied its contents into a small washtub and began heating another pot over the flames. Theon still wasn't sure how Jeyne had managed to obtain some of the now-precious firewood from Stannis's troops in order to heat his bath water. He supposed that her status as "Arya Stark" must have afforded her some privileges, though he hadn't expected this to be one of them.

He continued to his companion go about her task. Although he was very much looking forward to his long-overdue bath, it was Jeyne herself she was watching and not the task she was undertaking.

He was fascinated by the way her eyes managed to simultaneously hold both a touching innocence and a terrifying worldliness. The way that somehow, despite how horribly and completely she'd been broken, she still managed to carry herself with poise and purpose. The fact that somehow--even though she'd been trained as a whore for a bastard's bed; had been used as the means for a sadist's pleasure; had been battered, bruised, broken until there was almost nothing left to salvage--somehow, despite all of this--she was still a lady, steward's daughter though she may have been born.

It seemed simultaneously a moment and an eternity ago, he had been Ned Stark's foster son, and she had been Sansa's silly, simpering little friend. It struck him as astonishing that there had been a time when his only real thought of Jeyne Poole would have been to consider if she'd be worth bedding someday. It felt so odd to realize that he would have once considered her in such crude terms, that in his mind, Jeyne might have been reduced to merely a female body with which he might have done as pleased.

It disgusted him to think that he might have had such thoughts about her without a second thought or an iota of guilt. Now, he did not deserve to kiss the hem of her gown, let alone her lips.

She had risen while he had fallen. She had become more than a steward's daughter, while he had become less than a man. Ironically, he doubted that anyone else besides himself--except perhaps Sansa, wherever she was--could see the true worth of this seemingly insignificant girl. Ironically, he himself was seen as more valuable to the uninformed observer. He was, after all, the heir to the Iron Islands, and in Stannis Baratheon's view, a fitting sacrifice to appease his fire god. Jeyne only retained any real value so long as she kept up the illusion that she really was Arya Stark, and this illusion could be maintained only so much longer.

Jeyne briefly looked up from her work and caught Theon’s eyes upon her. Her mouth gave an almost-imperceptible twitch. If Theon were to guess, he’d supposed that she must have attempted to smile before realizing she’d all-but-forgotten how to do so.

“I think it’s about full,” Jeyne said, gesturing toward the washtub. To Theon's mild surprise, she averted her eyes as he disrobed and plunged into the lukewarm waters of the washtub. _Was it possible that Jeyne had somehow miraculously retained some small vestige of maidenly shyness, in spite of the nightmare she'd lived through?_

He abandoned that astonishing thought after only momentary consideration. No, it was far more likely that not even she could bear to look at the horrific mutilation that was now Theon's body.

Well, it wasn't as if he could blame her. If-- by some miracle--he ever returned home alive, he planned to have all the mirrors in the Iron Islands shattered, so he'd never again have to see the monster Ramsay had made of him.

Of course, not even shattering the mirrors in all the Seven Kingdoms would make him fully a man again. He'd still have to live with the monster he knew he was inside. The memories of what he had been could not be disposed of so easily.

 

Jeyne began washing the filth from him with a ragged bit of cloth. The simple gesture called to mind the times when he had bathed her. Jeyne’s careful, thorough strokes could not have been more different than his own when their positions had been reversed. His mangled hands had left his own attempts clumsy. And while Jeyne was gentle, he had been rough, scrubbing until her skin had been red and raw so that Ramsay would find his bride clean enough for his liking.

Theon closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Jeyne’s fingers lightly massaging his scalp. She stopped rather suddenly, and his eyes opened to see her starting to get up from her kneeling position.

He instinctively reached for her wrist and held it a firm-albeit-clumsy hold. “Please, please don’t go.”

“I’m just going to get some more hot water. Don’t worry, Theon. I won’t leave you; I promise.”

He released his grip on her and idly watched her take the steaming pot off the fire.

 _I won’t leave you; I promise_. He wondered just how long she meant it. Would she still be there with him when Stannis’s fire priestess burned him? Did he even want her to be there with him to the end?  
He hated the thought he might make her cry when she already had more to cry about than any person had a right to. But on the other hand, the thought that she might not cry when he was dead was just as gloomy. He hated to think that he would not be worth her tears, though he knew he did not deserve even her pity.

Jeyne soon returned to his side, bringing the pot with her. He flinched and let out a strangled cry of pain as the hot water made its first contact with his cold, bare skin.

“Are you alright?” Jeyne asked, her eyes frantically alight with concern.

“M’fine,” he managed to get out. And he was. By now, his body was starting to adjust to the initially shocking contrast in temperature. As with so many other things in life, what had once been agonizingly painful was starting to feel considerably soothing. Sometimes you needed to really feel the pain in order to truly feel and appreciate the receding of it.

“I’m so sorry, Theon. I should have thought…”

“It’s fine, Jeyne. It’s fine.”

 _She called me ‘Theon’_ he suddenly remembered after a moment.

The sudden remarkably consoling thought then struck him that he was—in fact—in the process of re-becoming “Theon.” Once all the grime was washed away from his body--once the rank stench that had encapsulated his time with Ramsay was gone-- he would no longer be "Reek." Although the memories of the horrors he had lived through would continue to stain him internally, he could start to be "Theon" again. If he could never again be the person he'd once been, he could at least have his name back.

He voiced this thought to Jeyne, wondering if she might be experiencing something similar now that she was free from her identity as "Arya Stark."

"You were never 'Reek' to me," his companion replied simply as she resumed washing the dirt off his face.

After momentary uncertainty, Theon realized that she was right. In Jeyne's eyes, he had always been the tall, handsome young boy she used to watch practice fencing in the yard at Winterfell.

It had been a flawed perception even then before he'd become a pale, physically and emotionally shattered ghost of himself. He had never been the hero, and he never would be.

Though his birth had been legitimate enough, he was nonetheless baseborn to the marrow. Neither wolf nor kraken, but some horribly bastardized hybrid of the two. In the songs, such lost, lonely boys might one day prove themselves worthy through valor and noble deeds, but it would never be the case with him.

He had been a coward before he'd become a turncloak. He’d used women, not merely for pleasure but because he’d needed to feel he had control over something, real value to someone. He’d taken pride in hunting, because he knew he was only strong when his opponent was far weaker.

In that respect, he really hadn’t been that much different from Ramsay. Except somehow as depraved and disturbed as Ramsay was, the bastard of Bolton was still braver than Theon. Ramsay’s cruelty knew no bounds. There was nothing he wouldn’t do; no one he couldn’t destroy.

Theon Greyjoy was merely confused, conflicted, _craven._

He thought of the small burned bodies of the miller’s boys laid before the people of Winterfell. He thought of Jeyne quivering in fear, howling in pain, sobbing in grief every night while he kept his distance—too afraid to risk helping her. To afraid even to risk bandaging her wounds for the fear of Ramsay’s displeasure. He thought of Robb—Robb who’d been his brother—Robb lying headless on the cold hard ground at Roose Bolton’s feet, because Theon hadn’t been there to save him. Because Theon had unknowingly _helped_ the Boltons to kill him.

Hot tears stung his eyes, and though he could barely see through them, he felt cold, soft hands at his cheeks trying to wipe them away.

_Jeyne._

He wanted to ask her why she kept trying to help him. There was nothing about him that was worth saving. So what, if he’d helped her escape from Ramsay? He’d been helping himself to escape just as much. And even if he hadn’t, one good deed could not make up for the other horrible things that he’d done. One deed –that truth be told was far more selfish than altruistic—could not redeem him.

And yet, Jeyne kept trying to save him anyway, and though he was far past saving, he could still feel her influence upon him. Even though he could not be redeemed, she made him think about the possibility of redemption and desire it with every fiber of his being. Though he knew he deserved to suffer for his crimes, he no longer prayed for death as he had in times past.

Jeyne had never seen what Theon truly was, which both a miracle and a blessing. And because she had seen a man where the rest of the world saw a monster, she made him want to see it too. She made him want to be a man again.

Of course, he knew that he could never be the man she thought he was, the man both of them wanted him to be. But he could live the few days he had left, as though he was that man.

He would never die a hero, but at least he could still die a human.


End file.
